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AS  A  FALLING  STAR 


■Kfe 


AS  A 
FALLING   STAB^ 

ELEANOR  GAyLORD  PHELPS 


CHICAGO 
ACM<?CLURG  &■  CO 

igpi 


UNIVERSITY 

OF 


Copyright 
By  A.  C.  McClurg    &    Co., 

A.    D.     I9OI. 


\ 


®t)i*  little  etorp  (0  Uetifcateo,  toftl)  affection,  to 
t|?e  gtoeet  memorp  of  a  ct)iin  cousin  tocom  3  count 
among  tftooc  ancjete  tobo  bane  come  to  GEartf)  tonile 
44  Saint  ©eter  0lept" 

©♦  «♦  ©♦ 


AS  A   FALLING  STAR 
i. 

"  One  night,  as  old  Saint  Peter  slept, 
He  left  the  gates  of  Heaven  ajar, 
When  through  a  little  angel  crept, 
And  came  to  earth  as  a  falling  star." 
-  E.  C.  M. 

OHN  and  I  have  come  to  be 
very  dear  friends.  This  I 
realize  more  and  more  daily. 
A  very  deep  love  seems  to 
have  grown  out  of  our  per- 
fect understanding  of  one  another.  Was  it 
only  by  chance  that  this  dear  love  and  friend- 
ship was  made  ?  No,  I  prefer  to  believe  that 
an  overruling  Spirit  sent  me  to  him  ;  that  his 
good  angel  prompted  him  to  stretch  out  his 
baby  hands  to  mine,  and  to  look  beseechingly 


12  ft*  a  falling  &tat 

into  my  eyes.  I  could  not  resist  inquiring  of 
the  nurse  about  him,  I  am  sure.  She  shook 
her  head  very  slowly,  and  said  nothing  for  a 
moment  to  my  inquiry ;  and  then  she  replied, 
very  gently  — 

u  Miss  Eleanore,  we  know  nothing.  We 
found  him  on  the  hospital  steps  some  morn- 
ings  since.  He  was  rolled  up  in  a  bundle  of 
very  fine  linen,  and  dressed  in  very  delicate 
lawn.  The  undergarments  were  all  exquisitely 
hemstitched  and  daintily  embroidered.  When 
we  picked  him  up  his  great  brown  eyes  looked 
wonderingly  into  ours,  and  then  a  sweet  smile 
covered  his  perfect  face."  While  the  nurse 
was  telling  me  this,  he  turned  over  in  his  crib 
and  stretched  out  his  hand  across  the  coverlid 
toward  mine.  The  very  light  of  the  angels 
seemed  to  shine  from  his  beautiful  counte- 
nance, and  I  followed  an  irresistible  inclina- 
tion to  kneel  beside  the  crib.  The  little  eyelids 
closed,  and  the  exquisitely  chiselled   features 


&g  a  ifaUinu  &tat  13 

were  the  picture  of  peace.  He  seemed  soothed 
by  my  presence,  or  I  fancied  that  he  did,  and 
a  deep  love  for  the  forlorn  little  one  crept  into 
my  soul  in  that  moment  and  I  lingered  on  my 
knees  for  a  little  time.  And  a  silent  prayer 
was  on  my  lips  and  in  my  heart  for  one  of 
God's  little  ones. 

"Ah,  is  he  ill,  nurse?"  I  found  myself 
asking. 

"  No,  not  ill,  Miss  Eleanore,  but  very  un- 
fortunate." 

And  I  could  not  but  shudder,  for  intuitively 
I  seemed  to  feel  that  some  member  of  his 
fragile  body  was  lacking  in  vigor  and  health. 

"  One  little  leg  is  withered,  Miss  Eleanore, 
and  he  will  never  walk  without  crutches,  so 
the  physicians  say." 

And  the  pathetic  eyes  opened  once  again, 
as  the  tiny  fingers  clutched  at  my  hand ;  and 
then  and  there  I  promised  myself  the  future 
care  of  little  "John,"  for  so  I  named  him.    Of 


H  ft*  a  falling  Star 

a  sudden  Andrea  del  Sarto's  child  Saint  John 
came  before  me,  and  the  thought  with  it : 
"  Great  Master,  that  little  face  that  you  put 
upon  canvas  so  many  years  ago  has  become 
an  ideal  child  countenance  in  the  heart  of 
many  a  woman."  And  with  the  spiritual 
countenance  of  little  Saint  John  the  Baptist 
still  in  my  mind,  I  could  not  help  making  a 
silent  comparison. 

u  You  resemble  that  face,  my  baby  John. 
My  dream  is  to  be  realized  in  part,  for  we 
have  found  each  other.  And  now,  with  God's 
permission,  I  may  call  you  c  my  John.'  I 
shall  never  forget  that  bleak  day  one  Novem- 
ber when  I  brought  you  home  with  me,  and 
you  nestled  down  in  my  arms,  and  I  fancied 
that  perhaps  you  realized  that  I  was  lonely, 
that  I  needed  you,  and  for  this  you  might 
grow  to  love  me.  We  are  one  another's 
natural  protectors,  John.  God  sent  you  to 
me,  did  he  not  ? " 


&0  a  jfaUing  fetar  15 

And  the  infant's  response  was  only  a  sad 
sweet  little  smile,  which  lingered  for  a  moment 
like  a  truant  shadow,  and  then  died  away  and 
left  a  depth  of  suffering  on  the  even  then 
patient  face. 

u  I  never  had  to  think  of  any  other  but 
myself,  before  you  came,  little  John.  Mother 
and  father  ever  made  a  pet  of  me,  and  every 
thought  was  for  my  happiness.  And  Tom  ! 
ah,  he  loved  me,  too.  But  they  have  all  gone 
away,  never  to  return  except  in  the  spirit, 
little  John." 

What  a  blessing  it  is,  Eleanore,  that  a  child 
has  come  into  your  life,  that  it  may  cease  to 
be  a  lonely,  barren  existence,  —  and  such  it 
was  before  you  came,  with  mother,  father,  and 
sweetheart  gone  away  to  the  land  from  which, 
I  am  certain,  little  John  came.  God  knew 
that  I  was  all  alone,  that  my  life  had  come 
to  be  a  very  narrow  one,  that  my  sorrow 
was    very   great,   that    I   was   fast    becoming 


16  a*  a  jFalltna;  &tar 

very  selfish  —  and  He  sent  little  John  to  me. 

My  little  apartment  never  before  looked  so 
attractive  as  it  did  on  that  evening  when  I 
brought  John,  the  dear  child  with  the  withered 
leg,  away  from  the  hospital  and  home  with  me. 
The  night  was  a  clear  one,  and  the  stars  made 
both  the  heavens  and  the  earth  luminous  by 
their  brightness.  As  we  passed  along  up  the 
avenue,  I  could  not  but  glance  out  of  the 
carriage  door,  and  doing  so,  was  just  in  time 
to  note  a  falling  star  come  to  earth,  and  I 
like  to  fancy  that  there  was  a  deep  spiritual 
significance  in  the  fact  of  its  having  appeared 
on  that  very  night.  The  gates  of  Heaven 
were  left  unbarred,  surely,  and  the  angel  child 
must  have  gotten  by  Saint  Peter  and  fluttered 
to  this  world,  —  and  could  it  be  that  I  was 
holding  him  in  my  arms? 

The  good  nurse  came  from  the  hospital 
with  us,  but  she  retired  at  an  early  hour, 
leaving  John  and  me  and  the  glowing  embers 


&0  a  Jfalling  &tar  17 

to  each  other.  I  lifted  him  from  his  crib, 
when  she  had  closed  the  door  of  her  chamber 
behind  her,  and  held  him  there  in  my  arms. 
For  the  first  time  the  full  responsibility  of  the 
trust  came  to  me,  and  I  realized  that  to  me 
was  given  in  keeping  the  care  of  one  of  God's 
very  elect. 

Little  lips,  they  shall  never  know  the  word 
"  mother,"  since  it  is  "  His  will  be  done." 
Your  mother  has  put  you  from  her  because 
of  your  deformity,  it  would  seem,  and  I  am 
only  God's  stewardess.  I  believe  that  the 
angels  have  asked  me  to  stand  guardian  for 
them,  and  with  the  help  of  the  Mighty  Host, 
I  will. 


II. 


'Our  birth  is  but  a  sleep  and  a  forgetting ; 

The  soul  that  rises  with  us,  our  life's  star, 
Hath  had  elsewhere  its  setting, 

And  cometh  from  afar ; 
Not  in  entire  forgetfulness, 

And  not  in  utter  nakedness, 
But  trailing  clouds  of  glory  do  we  come 

From  Ood,  who  is  our  home : 
Heaven  lies  about  us  in  our  infancy." 

—  Wordsworth. 

HE  days  are  much  alike  for 
John  and  me,  but  such  happy 
days!  Never  has  there  come 
a  moment  in  which  I  have 
regretted  finding,  taking, 
knowing,  loving,  little  John.  He  does  n't 
seem  to  grow  as  fast  as  most  children  do,  but 
the  spirit  quite  developes  beyond  human  con- 
ception, and  sometimes  I  fear  that  the  little 
soul  will  become  too  great  for  the  fragile  body 
to  harbor,  and  that  he  will  fleet  away  beyond 
my  grasp. 


ft*  a  jFalltng  &tat  19 

John  is  getting  to  that  age  when  he  wishes 
to  call  me  by  some  name,  and  I  fancied 
one  day,  not  long  ago,  that  he  attempted  to 
pucker  his  little  lips  into  the  word  "moth- 
er " ;  but  I  knew  that  I  must  never  encourage 
this,  though  the  temptation  was  very  great. 
It  is  only  natural  for  every  woman,  some  time 
in  her  life,  to  wish  a  child  to  utter  that  word 
to  her.  If  John  were  as  strong  of  body  as 
most  children,  I  might  have  been  tempted  to 
allow  the  word  to  form  upon  his  baby  lips, 
but  I  knew  that  he  must  never  have  the 
mental  sorrow  of  the  question,  "  Are  you  my 
mother  ?  "  But  the  day  will  come  when  little 
John  will  reason  for  himself,  and  when  I  look 
into  his  sorrowful  brown  eyes,  I  sometimes 
fancy  that  I  can  discover  an  inquiring  expres- 
sion there.  And  then,  after  a  moment's 
thought,  I  realize  that  he  is  only  a  babe,  and 
that  I  am  interpreting  my  own  fears. 


III. 

"My  soul  is  not  untutored  now, 

Even  words  and  tongues  for  me  have  might ; 
My  thought  has  learn'd  a  calmer  flow, 
And  the  dark  waters  leap  in  light." 

—  Cecil  Alexander. 

EOPLE  often  come  to  see 
John  and  me.  Our  apart- 
ment is  very  attractive,  or  at 
least  we  think  so.  John's 
room  is  bright  and  cheerful, 
and  the  white  curtains  seem  to  reflect  only  the 
purity  of  his  spotless  soul.  The  walls  are 
covered  with  the  most  attractive  pictures  that 
I  could  find  for  a  boy's  room. 

This  afternoon,  several  of  my  old  school 
friends  who  are  now  married  were  in  to  see 
me.  They  impressed  me  as  being  so  happy, 
and  I  can  but  think  of  what  my  own  life 
would  have  been,  had  Tom  lived. 

Dr.  Leech,  the  ward  physician  at  the  hos- 


80  a  jfaUtng  &tat  21 

pital,  dropped  in  to  chat  with  us  for  a  while 
just  after  sunset.  He  always  seems  to  enjoy 
our  tea  and  our  books  and  our  pictures,  and 
hearing  of  little  John.  I  believe  he  loves  the 
boy  dearly.  It  was  he  who  first  discovered 
him  that  morning  when  his  unnatural  parents 
had  left  him  to  shiver  on  the  hospital  steps. 
Dr.  Leech  is  a  very  tender  man  with  children, 
and  with  other  people  there  is  a  charm  of 
reserve  and  timidity  which  we  seldom  see, 
alas  !  in  the  modern  successful  man.  I  think 
that  I  enjoy  his  companionship  because  he 
knew  Tom,  and  it  was  he  who  created  the 
diversion  for  me  of  going  to  the  hospital  to 
read  and  chat  with  the  little  ones.  Precious 
John  !  if  it  had  not  been  for  Dr.  Leech,  I 
might  never  have  known,  never  have  found 
you. 


IV. 


'Now  fades  the  last  long  streak  of 
Now  bourgeons  every  maze  of  quick 
About  the  flowering  squares,  and  thick 
By  ashen  roots  the  violets  blow." 

—  Tennyson. 

HE  days  are  warm  and  spring- 
like. The  sleeping  year  has 
awakened  from  its  long  win- 
ter's slumber,  and  the  gentle 
breezes  of  Spring  have  fanned 
into  being  all  the  lesser  manifestations  of  the 
gladsome,  hopeful  season;  and  with  these 
spring  days,  it  seems  to  me,  John's  soul  has 
had  a  new  awakening,  too.  This  morning  he 
called  me  to  him,  and  used  my  name,  for  he 
knows  it  well  now,  and  says  it  quite  as  plainly 
as  one  older  would. 

u  Eleanore,  John  wants  you." 
Perhaps  I  should  feel  superstitious  about  the 
boy's  using  his  name  in  speaking  of  himself, 


&0  a  falling  &tar  23 

but  I  am  not.  He  is  very  respectful  to  others, 
and  seems  to  possess  a  rare  sense  of  avoiding 
even  familiarity  in  speaking  of  himself.  This 
reverence  which  he  appears  to  have  for  every 
creature  is  as  unusual  as  it  is  refreshing.  He 
has  learned  to  know  my  favorite  picture  now, 
and  when  I  ask  him  which  of  all  the  others  I 
most  like,  his  frail  little  hand  will  wander 
from  frame  to  frame,  and  finally  rest  upon 
the  beautiful  features  of  Andrea  del  Sarto's 
little  "  Saint  John." 

The  nurse  has  left  us  now,  and  I  take  sole 
care  of  little  John,  which  is  for  me  the  sweet- 
est of  tasks.  We  sit  much  of  the  time  in  the 
high  window-seat  overlooking  the  house-tops 
of  this  vast  city,  and  together  watch  the  sun- 
set and  the  horizon  lighted  up  by  its  last 
wonderfully  colored  rays  of  light.  And  he 
coos  and  laughs,  and  often  relaxes  into  a 
spirit   of  seeming   thoughtfulness,   and    then 


OF 


24  a$  a  falling  fetar 

nestles  closely  to  me,  and  I  to  him,  for  we 
love  each  other  dearly. 

Tom  comes  to  me  sometimes  in  my  dreams 
and  seems  to  say,  u  Eleanore,  it  is  better  so," 
and  I  fear  that  I  awake  choking.  Tom  was 
all  that  I  hope  little  John  will  grow  to  be  — 
a  poetic,  noble  soul,  with  a  heart  as  good  and 
as  true  as  ever  God  gave  me  the  lot  to  know 
and  love. 

It  is  Tom's  birthday.  He  would  be  thirty- 
five  if  he  were  living.  Let  us  pretend  that 
he  is,  John.  But  what  would  he  say  to  you 
here?  You  were  not  mine  when  he  left  me. 
I  can  picture  easily  now  how  naturally  he 
would  walk  into  the  room,  as  he  used  to  into 
our  library  at  home  when  I  was  a  girl,  and 
my  parents  were  with  me. 

M  Ah,  Eleanore,"  he  would  say,  u  and  what 
have  you  been  about  all  this  long  day,  my 
sweetheart  ?     Tell    me   about   yourself,  and 


ft*  a  falling  &tat  25 

then  read  to  me,  while  I  lose  myself  for  a 
moment  in  the  world  of  the  flame  —  with 
your  permission,  dear." 

Tom  was  always  gallant,  John ;  a  true 
gentleman  always  is.  Ah,  but  your  baby 
understanding  does  n't  grasp  what  I  am  saying. 
How  could  I  expect  it  to  ?  Forgive  me,  dear 
little  one.  You  have  so  taken  the  others' 
places,  those  who  have  gone  away  from  me, 
that  I  talk  to  you,  in  my  half-spoken  reveries, 
as  I  used  to  with  them. 

The  Easter-lilies  are  very  nearly  dead. 
What  short-lived  waxy  creations  they  are. 
But  I  love  them,  for  we  were  to  have  been 
married  at  Easter-time.  How  majestically 
the  lilies  would  have  bowed  their  heads  to 
Tom.  They,  I  am  sure,  would  have  recog- 
nized his  goodness,  John,  just  as  I  did. 


1  Ah,  what  pleasant  visions  haunt  me 

As  I  gaze  upon  the  sea, 
All  the  old  romantic  legends, 
All  my  dreams,  come  back  to  me." 

—  Longfellow. 

UMMER  has  come.  Our 
apartment  in  town  is  closed. 
The  books  are  shut  in  be- 
hind glass  doors.  The  clock 
with  the  chimes,  that  stands 
in  the  hall,  has  run  down.  The  pictures 
hang  unrecognized  as  old  friends,  and  the 
window-seat  is  unoccupied,  for  John  and  I 
are  in  the  country,  by  the  sea.  He  is  growing 
much  these  summer  days.  A  little  country 
boy  in  blue  jeans  wheels  him  about  in  the 
sunshine,  over  the  farms  and  through  the 
village  streets. 

John  smiles  at  the  passers-by,  and  when 
some  fond,  doting  spinster  offers  him  a  bunch 


8L0  a  JFalltng  &tat  27 

of  her  choicest  posies  from  her  aristocratic 
garden,  he  kisses  her  hand  and  says,  u  John 
thanks  you,"  in  such  a  manner  as  to  charm 
the  kind-hearted  woman  and  make  it  her  chief 
delight  to  tell  her  neighbors  and  friends  of 
the  occurrence  many  times  during  the  follow- 
ing weeks. 

Long  Island  is  very  beautiful,  and  this 
quaint  little  village  by  the  sea,  the  oldest  on 
the  island,  has  its  bit  of  history  and  its  ro- 
mances. There  are  four  churches  here  in 
this  village,  and  John  makes  a  tour  of  them 
all  on  Sundays.  The  clergymen  have  taken 
a  very  great  fancy  to  the  boy,  and  John  is 
yet  too  young  to  be  annoyed  by  religious 
problems.  He  is  almost  five  now,  and  his 
beautiful  eyes  are  full  of  a  remarkable  depth 
of  feeling. 

Patience  !  What  a  lesson  it  is  that  one 
learns  from  my  John.  His  soul  seems  to 
rise  above  his  bodily  suffering,  and  the  very 


28  a*  a  jfalitng  fetat 

light  of  heaven  seems  to  shine  from  under  the 
long  lashes  that  fringe  the  deep  brown  eyes. 
His  blue  linen  suits  he  calls  "  white  caps." 

"  Eleanore,"  he  said  to  me  one  day,  when 
we  were  seated  on  the  drifting  sands  and 
playing  with  the  shells  that  had  come  in  with 
the  last  rise  of  the  tide,  "  the  waves  have 
white  faces  to-day." 

"  John,  if  it  were  the  ocean  instead  of  the 
bay,  I  should  call  them  '  white  caps.'  " 

"  White  caps,  did  you  say,  Eleanore  ?  Then 
my  sailor  suits  have  white  caps,  too,  have  n't 
they  ?  " 

The  people  of  the  village  are  very  kind  to 
John,  and  he  likes  them  genuinely.  We  were 
on  the  meadows  one  day  not  long  since,  and 
a  dear  old  farmer  stood  near  us,  swinging  his 
scythe  to  the  music  of  the  splashing  of  the 
waters  on  the  shore  not  far  distant.  John, 
in  his  effort  to  reach  the  old  man,  slipped 
from  his  cart  and  fell  forward.     The   kind 


&g  a  falling  fetar  29 

old  farmer  put  down  the  scythe  on  the  newly- 
cut  meadow-grass,  and  hurried  toward  us. 

u  What  a  beautiful  boy,  lady.  'Spose 
you  're  from  'York.  Most  all  those  who  are 
a-summerin'  'bout  here  are  from  thar.  Ah, 
did  it  hurt  you,  little  man  ?  Are  you  stayin' 
at  Bay  Side  Farms?" 

And  on  my  response  that  we  were  stopping 
with  my  grandfather  up  the  lane  a  way,  at 
South  Harbor,  the  old  man  seemed  to  have 
heard  of  us  before. 

u  Oh,  you  be  the  good  young  lady  that  I 
heerd  tell  of  who  lives  for  the  little  cripple. 
Where 's  the  young  man  who  was  follerin' 
around  after  you  when  you  used  to  come 
down  here  on  the  island?  —  Mr.  Tom  Mc- 
Gilvey,  I  believe,  was  his  name.  I  was  laid 
up  with  the  rheumatiz  that  summer,  and  as 
for  gettin'  'bout  ag'in  I  dun  give  up  all  hope. 
But,  do  you  know,  that  young  man  of  yours 
cheered  me  up  most  wonderful." 


30  ft*  a  falling  &tar 

But  he  must  have  caught  the  look  of  pain, 
mingled  with  interest,  on  my  face,  for  he 
ceased  to  speak,  turned  around  with  his  back 
to  my  face,  and  looked  away  apologetically 
across  the  bay,  and  at  the  sails  fleeting 
over  the  waters  toward  Shelter  Island,  as 
the  sea-gulls  had  before  them.  I  could  not 
answer  him  for  a  time,  and  then  I  remember 
saying : 

u  Ah,  those  were  very  happy  days,  Captain. 
Mr.  Tom  McGilvey  has  gone  away.  You, 
perhaps,  have  not  heard.  He  will  never  again 
come  to  the  shores  of  your  beautiful  island. 
He  died  at  the  end  of  that  summer  you  speak 
of,  and  I  have  been,  oh,  so  lonely  ever  since. " 

"An'  your  mother  and  father,  they  're  gone 
too,  I  heerd  tell,"  he  continued,  turning  about 
and  looking  toward  me,  his  eyes  full  of  sym- 
pathy, and  his  lips  quivering  for  very  pity  of 
forlorn  me.  u  Well,  young  lady,  you  is  cer- 
tainly brave,  —  but  the  boy,  he  loves  you,"  he 


ft*  a  jFalltng  &tar  31 

said,  laying  his  rough  brown  hand  on  John's 
shoulders. 

The  child  turned  his  little  face  toward  me, 
then  looking  into  the  Captain's  kind  old  face, 
and  pressing  my  hand  very  gently,  he  said : 

"John  loves  Eleanore,  oh,  so  much,  Cap- 
tain, and  everybody  does." 

Oh,  the  innocence  of  a  child's  adoration. 
Little  John,  you  can  never  know  how  near 
being  an  angel  you  are.  One  has  but  to  look 
into  your  saintly  face  to  realize  that  there  is  a 
greater  depth  of  feeling  there  than  in  that  of 
the  average  child,  perfect  of  body. 

John  does  n't  seem  to  tan  as  most  chil- 
dren do.  The  sunlight  appears  to  play  only 
with  his  dark  brown  locks  and  create  won- 
derful strands  of  gold  to  light  up  the  duller 
ones. 

The  Captain  is  becoming  a  great  friend 
of  John's  and  mine.  He  has  a  sail-boat,  in 
which  he  promises  to  take  us  across  the  bay, 


32  &0  a  ifalling  &tar 

some  fine  day,  before  we  return  to  town.  He 
calls  John  "  Laddie  "  now,  for  he  says  John 
is  too  harsh  a  name  for  an  "  angel-child  "  — 
one  so  fragile  as  this  little  boy.  I  think  the 
Captain  must  have  had  Scotch  forefathers, 
for  he  delights  in  the  use  of  some  few  Scotch 
words  and  phrases.  I  am  always  u  lassie  " 
to  him,  though  the  name  ill  fits  me,  as  I  am 
no  longer  a  girl. 

The  sunsets  are  very  beautiful  here  on  the 
island.  Several  of  my  friends  urged  me  to 
join  them  the  other  afternoon  in  going  to  the 
Sound  Beach  for  a  picnic  supper,  near  the  old 
mill.  They  think  me  very  dull  and  dreamy, 
I  am  sure,  and  perhaps  unsocial,  since  Tom 
left  me.  I  finally  decided  to  join  them, 
though  it  cost  me  an  effort.  Little  John 
clung  to  me  some  time  when  I  told  him  that 
Grandmother  would  put  him  to  sleep  that 
night,    but    never   a    pout  or  a  protest  from 


ft*  a  JFalltng  &tat  33 

John.  He  only  smiled,  and  when  I  kissed 
him  good-night  and  started  to  leave  him, 
he  waved  his  tiny  hand  to  me.  There  is 
much  to  live  for  when  a  little  child  makes 
an  effort  to  sacrifice  his  pleasure  for  what 
he  supposes  is  yours,  and  though  everybody 
who  once  made  my  life  seem  very  full  of 
joy  and  gladness  has  departed  from  me,  and 
everything  that  once  was  most  dear  has  gone 
out  like  a  candle  in  the  night,  still  now  there 
is  a  new  flame  that  prompts  me  to  live  and 
with  greater  usefulness,  for  the  beautiful  young 
life  of  another's  fills  mine  with  its  almost  spir- 
itual presence,  and  it  comes  over  me  that  I 
am  very  bountifully  blessed. 

John  is  becoming  very  fond  of  the  country. 
His  little  go-cart  is  filled  with  flowers  and 
meadow  grasses  and  "  cats  and  kittens,"  a 
kind  of  fur-like  weed  which  he  fondles  as 
he  does  the  animal  for  which  it  is  named. 


34  ft*  a  falling  &tar 

Now  that  the  golden-rod  is  in  bloom,  he  finds 
himself  a  Croesus  enthroned  among  his  golden 
possessions. 

u  Eleanore  loves  flowers,  too,"  he  said  to 
me  only  yesterday. 

"  Yes,  John,  they  please  me.  But  you  — 
you  delight  me  far  more,  my  boy,'*  I  found 
myself  making  reply. 

The  other  afternoon  he  called  me  to  him, 
and  in  the  door  of  the  vine-covered  country- 
house,  we  listened  to  the  striking  of  the  town 
clock  in  the  village,  some  distance  away. 
I  could  but  picture  the  long  ago  when  I,  a 
little  girl,  went  running  to  school  lest  the  nine 
strokes  of  that  clock  should  have  sounded  ere 
I  reached  the  academy.  Ah,  those  mornings 
of  long  ago  !  They  loom  up  on  Memory's 
horizon,  and  a  glow  remains  which  makes 
me  remember  very  vividly  their  many  joys 
and  their  petty  sorrows  and  trials. 

"  Eleanore,  like  our  chimes  at  home  in  the 


&0  a  jfalling;  &tat  35 

hall,"  I  heard  little  John  remarking,  his  sweet 
beautiful  face  turned  upward  and  the  expres- 
sion of  interest  suffusing  his  every  feature. 
He,  too,  was  in  the  power  of  association, 
though  how  different  from  my  own. 

The  Summer  is  fast  changing  its  robe.  The 
days  are  shortening,  and  we  begin  to  need 
our  wraps  in  the  late  afternoon.  The  sunsets 
come  earlier  and  John  seems  so  restless.  So 
we  must  very  soon  be  going  back  to  our 
small  apartment  in  town.  The  hollyhocks 
are  fading  and  losing  some  of  their  spinster- 
like dignity,  the  phlox  is  going  to  seed,  and 
the  French  lilacs  are  drooping  from  their 
stems.  Even  the  tiger-lily  stalks  stand 
flowerless.  The  sea-weed  drifts  high  upon 
the  beach.  The  farmers  have  begun  to  put 
on  their  quaint  little  thumb  huskers  and  kneel 
upon  mother  earth  in  the  desolate  fields. 
The  orchards  have  an  odor  of  cider  about 


36  &g  a  falling;  &tar 

them,  for  the  presses  are  at  work,  and  the 
apples  lie  in  quantities  under  the  dusty  boughs. 
The  peaches  are  in  abundance,  and  the  grapes 
hang  heavily  from  the  vines.  The  lumbering 
wagon  of  the  ice-man  seems  to  make  fewer 
trips  each  week  through  the  village  streets 
and  lanes.  The  townsfolk  are  turning  their 
faces  westward,  and  the  autumn  breezes  blow 
vindictively  about  the  old  light-house  at 
Horton's  Point. 

Our  summer  has  passed  very  sweetly  on 
this  dear  old  island,  but  now  we  must  say 
good-bye  to  country  lanes  and  to  walks  by 
the  sea,  for  John  seems  a  bit  weary,  and  Dr. 
Leech  recommends  "  treatments,"  and  hopes 
that  the  little  fellow  will  use  crutches  very 
soon.  I  think  that  it  will  grieve  me  sadly  to 
see  the  child  struggle  with  these  ugly  things. 
But  little  John  will  be  patient,  —  of  this  we 
are  at  all  times  sure. 

Good-bye  for  this  summer,  beautiful  island. 


SI*  a  ifalitng:  &tat  37 

You  and  your  good  people  have  been  sweet 
indeed  to  John  and  me,  and  we  thank  you 
deeply.  Why,  even  the  leaves  are  turning 
and  falling  over  the  way,  and  the  hickory 
logs  crackle  and  snap  as  the  flames  are  carried 
upward  through  the  old  brick  chimney. 

"Often  I  think  of  the  beautiful  town 
That  is  seated  by  the  sea; 
Often  my  thoughts  go  up  and  down 
The  pleasant  streets  of  that  dear  old  town, 
And  my  youth  comes  back  to  me." 


VI. 

1  Since  my  young  days  of  passion,  joy,  or  pain, 

Perchance  my  heart  and  harp  have  lost  a  string, 
And  both  may  jar,  —  it  may  be,  that  in  vain 
I  would  essay,  as  I  have  sung  to  sing." 

—  Byron. 

'OHN  is  radiant  in  the  joys 
of  Christmas.  The  tree  and 
the  toys  which  Dr.  Leech 
bestowed  upon  him  have 
given  him  a  genuine  child- 
throb  of  joy.  I  fear  that  if  he  is  soon  not 
said  nay  to  he  will  make  himself  ill  eating  so 
many  sweets. 

The  Doctor  dined  with  us  to-day,  and  has 
been  teaching  John  to  use  his  crutches. 
When  the  Doctor  had  placed  one  under  one 
arm,  and  was  offering  him  the  second,  he 
hesitated  for  a  moment,  and  then  beckoned 
me  to  him. 


ft*  a  falling  &tat  39 

"  Eleanore  have  one,  too." 

The  tears  came  to  my  eyes  in  spite  of 
every  effort.  Would  that  I  might  share  the 
bodily  inconvenience  and  suffering  of  little 
John  !  But  finally  my  courage  came,  and  I 
took  it  and  got  down  to  fit  the  short  little 
crutch,  and  hobbled  around  to  his  amusement. 
He  laughed,  and  his  sweet  voice  filled  the 
rooms  with  the  merriment  I  was  causing, 
though  he  realized  not  that  he  was  making 
light  of  his  own  misfortune. 

Dr.  Leech  has  grown  very  near  to  me 
since  John  came  into  my  life.  It  is  to  him 
that  I  go  for  advice  concerning  the  child,  and 
sometimes  he  ventures  to  advise  me  to  see 
more  of  people  !  Ah,  but  he  does  not  under- 
stand !  When  the  boy  is  older,  and  a  little 
stronger,  we  shall  travel.  New  sights  will 
amuse  him.  It,  perhaps,  may  best  be  soon, 
for  he  seems  to  have  developed  restlessness  to 


40  £0  a  Jfallins  &tat 

an  alarming  degree,  and  I  fancy  that  a  decided 
change  of  atmosphere  and  surroundings  may 
soothe  the  boy. 

A  tiny  little  miss  who  lives  over  the  way 
from  us  is  John's  little  playmate,  and  our 
nearest  neighbor.  She  seemed  fearful  of  John 
at  first,  his  serious  eyes  seemed  to  sadden  her. 
John  thought  it  was  his  crutches,  and  tried  to 
hide  them  so  as  not  to  distress  the  tiny  young 
lady,  but  now  that  she  knows  the  child  they 
are  devoted  friends,  and  she  cares  for  him 
and  protects  him,  as  he  would  protect  her  if 
he  were  not  hampered  by  bodily  ills.  They 
sit  together  in  the  high  window-seats,  and 
advance  infantile  theories  about  all  that  they 
see,  looking  out  over  the  house-tops.  It 
charms  me  to  listen  to  them,  she  is  so  gay 
and  healthy.  There  is  a  charm  and  brilliancy 
about  quaint  Alice  that  seems  to  almost  fas- 
cinate little  John. 

I  sometimes  wonder  what  manner  of  par- 


ftg  a  JFalling  &tai  41 

ents  John's  were  to  have  cast  him  out  because 
of  his  deformity.  There  is  a  bitter  truth, 
and  I  rejoice  that  I  know  it  not.  It  will  be 
a  cruel  duty  to  some  day  have  to  explain  to 
the  boy  that  we  are  one  another's  only  by 
adoption,  and  God  help  me  ! 

The  child  spends  part  of  these  long  wintry 
days  in  learning  to  read  and  write.  A  sweet 
young  woman  with  a  wonderful  knowledge 
of  children  is  guiding  him  in  this  new  road. 

Last  night  a  heavy  snow  fell,  and  the 
flakes  scattered  like  so  much  confetti  at  a 
European  fete.  John  expressed  a  desire  to 
catch  a  few,  for  he  said  that  they  were  the 
stars  falling  from  the  sky.  Little  John,  you 
surely  must  be  the  little  angel  who  fell  as  a 
star  to  earth  while  Saint  Peter  slept.  Your 
thoughts  seem  almost  supernatural. 

Our  grate-fire  has  been  so  comfortable 
to-day,  and  John  and  I  have  spent  most  of 
the  day  on  a  swinging  divan,  reading  weird 


42  ft*  a  falling;  fbtat 

tales  of  strange  animals  in  far-off  lands.  Alice 
and  Dr.  Leech  have  both  been  in  to  see  us. 
The  Doctor  plays  sweetly,  and  to-day  he  sat 
down  before  the  keys  and  played  that  ex- 
quisite prayer  from  Lohengrin  which  would 
bring  the  vilest  sinner  to  the  seat  of  repent- 
ance, so  strongly  does  it  work  upon  the  very 
best  in  a  being.  The  prayer  is  still  ringing 
in  my  ears  as  a  forest  echo  seems  to  sound  and 
sound  again  after  a  storm  has  passed.  The 
children's  chatter  began  again  as  soon  as  the 
final  chord  was  struck,  and  I  found  myself 
away  in  a  revery  which  took  me  back  to  the 
sweet  past,  which  holds  nearly  all  of  the  bless- 
ings that  were  ever  mine,  —  holds  them  fast 
in  its  tenacious  clutches,  and  suddenly  yields 
them  up  to  either  aggravate  or  soothe  me,  as 
Fate  will ! 

How  exquisite  the  bitter-sweet  on  the  book- 
case is ;  its  glow  of  color  seems  to  give  me 
new   courage.      I   met   some  of  Tom's  and 


ft*  a  jFailing  &tat  43 

-my  old  friends  this  morning.  Such  content- 
ment seems  to  be  theirs.  Surely  it  would 
have  been  the  same  with  me  had  the  dear 
sweetheart  lived.  But  I  am  fading,  oh,  so 
fast.  Only  this  morning  John  was  stroking 
my  hair,  and  finding  a  gray  lock  he  played 
with  it  lovingly  for  a  moment,  and  then  pat- 
ting my  head  once  more  before  speaking,  a 
look  of  surprise  coming  over  his  face,  he  said  : 

"  Eleanore,  it  is  like  the  silver  shells  we 
found  last  summer  on  Peconic  Bay  Beach." 

u  Yes,  and  yours,  dear,  are  like  the  gold 
ones  we  found  on  the  same  day  along  the 
same  shore." 

How  the  sunshine  likes  those  golden  curls. 

It  is  a  weary  wait,  and  yet  for  John's  sake 
it  is  made  possible.  I  played  upon  my  harp 
this  morning  for  the  first  time  in  many  years. 
John  stood  on  his  little  crutches  amazed  and 
delighted,  and  of  a  sudden  I  realized  how 
selfish  in  my  sorrow   I    had    been   all    these 


44  &0  a  falling  fetar 

months,  for  I  should  not  have  allowed  my 
grief  to  have  thrown  shadows  on  this  precious 
little  life.  Not  since  that  afternoon,  too 
grievous  to  recall,  when  word  was  brought 
to  me  of  Tom's  accident  and  for  me  to  hurry 
to  him,  had  I  played  until  now.  I  hardly 
believed  that  I  could  again,  but, — 

u  Eleanore,  play  more,  dearest.  It  makes 
both  little  legs  feel  alike.  You've  never 
made  music  for  John  before. " 

After  this  I  cannot  deny  him  pleasure,  in 
harboring  a  sentiment  or  inclination  of  my 
own.  His  ear  for  time  is  very  correct,  and 
occasionally  he  seizes  one  crutch  and  waves 
it  through  space  as  an  orchestra  leader  does 
his  baton,  and,  thus  supported,  I  play  on. 

It  is  once  more  Easter,  and  the  day  has 
been  a  happy  one  for  John  and  me.  This 
morning  he  found,  among  a  lot  of  old  cards 
which    I    gave    him    to   amuse    himself  with 


ft*  a  falling  &tat  45 

during  the  wait  between  the  end  of  service 
and  our  dinner  hour,  one  decorated  with  an 
allegorical  representation  of  the  rejoicing 
caused  in  heaven  upon  the  Resurrection  morn. 
A  beautiful  angel  was  playing  the  harp.  He 
did  not  quite  seem  to  grasp  the  meaning. 

u  What  are  you  doing,  Eleanore,  among 
the  clouds  playing  your  harp  ?  " 

"  That  is  not  I,  dearie." 

What  a  beautiful  world  this  would  be  if  we 
were  all  as  innocent  as  this  little  child.  But 
the  years  are  few  and  the  time  short  before 
the  secret  guarded  so  long  by  his  good  angel 
is  out :  that  lam  only  a  selfish,  sinning  mortal, 
hiding  my  sorrow  in  his  young  life.  Ah, 
may  I  be  none  the  less  dear  to  him  when  the 
ideal  veil  of  perfection  falls  and  he  sees  me 
as  I  am. 


VII. 

'  Ob,  Autumn  !  why  so  soon 

Depart  the  hues  that  make  thy  forests  glad, 
Thy  gentle  wind  and  thy  fair  sunny  noon, 
And  leave  thee  wild  and  sad  ?  " 

—  Bryant. 

HE  summers  come  and  th? 

winters  go,  and   autumn   is 

here   again.      The    maple 

leaves     cover     the     avenue 

with    a    cloth    of    red    and 

gold.      The  birds  begin  to  flap  their  wings  in 

restlessness.      Soon  they  will  fly  to  warmer 

climes,  and  all  nature  will  find  itself  songless 

except   for  human  efforts.     John  and   I  are 

restless,  too.      His    frail   body   seems  to  illy 

stand  our  winters,  and   his  little  face  grows 

the  more  beautiful  each  day.     I  cling  to  this 

"  Gentle  boy,  with  soft  and  silken  locks, 
A  dreamy  boy,  with  brown  and  tender  eyes," 

almost  as  helplessly  as  he  to  me,  and  we  are 


£0  a  failing  &tar  w 

each  other's.  For  how  long  ?  comes  the 
faint,  answerless  question. 

Dr.  Leech  has  built  up  a  barrier  between 
himself  and  me.  He  has  attempted  to  wear 
poor  Tom's  glasses,  and  I  can  never  look 
back  responsively,  for  all  my  hopes,  all  my 
life,  are  centred  in  little  John.  Why  will 
he  urge  my  shattered,  half-spent  life  playing 
any  part  in  his  full  and  hopeful  one.  Ah 
me,  few  women  understand  most  men,  until 
it  is  too  late.  He  claims  that  his  life  has 
been  a  very  empty  one,  that  mine  has  been 
so  full.  Full?  —  full  of  the  deepest  sorrow 
and  the  deepest  love  for  my  crippled  angel. 
Was  it  the  fall  from  the  sky  that  gave  you 
all  this  suffering  ?  John  loves  me ;  John 
needs  me ;  John  shall  have  me. 

We  are  about  to  start  on  a  long  journey 
over  the  seas,  where  John  will,  I  hope,  grow 
stronger,  I  freer, — and  Dr.  Leech  will  learn  to 
realize  that  the  impossible  is  the  unchangeable. 


Of   THE 


VIII. 

"Far  to  the  right,  where  Apenniue  ascends 
Bright  as  the  summer,  Italy  extends ; 
Its  uplands  sloping  deck  the  mountain's  side, 
Woods  over  woods  in  gay  theatric  pride, 
While  oft  some  temple's  mouldering  tops  between, 
With  venerable  grandeur  mark  the  scene. 
Could  Nature's  bounty  satisfy  the  breast, 
The  sons  of  Italy  were  surely  blest." 

—  Oliver  Goldsmith. 

E  are  nearing  Naples.  Mary 
is  with  us.  She  came  to 
me  willingly,  and  I  was 
much  gratified  to  find  her 
heart  still  full  of  the  love 
she  seems  to  bear  for  the  little  child.  He  sits 
between  us  in  his  steamer  chair,  rolled  up  in 
a  warm  rug,  with  the  soft  caressing  breeze  of 
the  Mediterranean  fanning  his  brow.  —  Ah, 
what  a  beautiful  sunset ! 

John  is  twelve  years  old  now,  and  not  so 
large  as  the  average  boy  of  those  years ;  but 
he  is  brave,  and  uses  his  crutches  gracefully 


&0  a  falling  fetat  49 

for  a  cripple.  To-day  he  startled  me  by 
saying  — 

"  Eleanore,  boys  have  mothers.  Are  you 
mine  ? " 

"God  gave  us  to  one  another,  dear,  be- 
cause I  was  very  selfish.  And  you  were  very 
much  alone  in  the  world,  and  so  was  I,  dear ; 
for  this  we  love  each  other  dearly.  John, 
you  have  made  me  a  far  better  woman  than 
I  should  ever  have  been  without  you." 

"  Ah,"  he  simply  said,  and  fell  back  in  his 
steamer  chair,  and  allowed  himself  to  be  lulled 
to  sleep  by  the  motion  of  the  ship.  And  I 
closed  my  eyes  and  thought  and  thought,  and 
when  I  opened  them  again  old  Vesuvius 
could  be  seen  plainly.  Our  voyage  is  soon 
to  end.  Our  next  day  will  be  upon  foreign 
shores,  —  the  romantic  shores  of  old  Italy. 
Fair  country  by  the  sea,  we  greet  you ! 


IX. 

4  Something  the  heart  must  have  to  cherish 
Must  love  and  joy  and  sound  and  learn, 
Something  with  passion  clasp  or  perish 

And  in  itself  to  ashes  burn. 
So  to  this  child  my  heart  is  clinging, 

And  its  frank  eyes,  with  look  intense, 
Me  from  a  world  of  sin  are  bringing 
Back  to  a  world  of  innocence." 

—  Translated  from  the  German. 

OHN  likes  Naples.  He  ex- 
presses a  very  great  desire  to 
go  soon  to  the  Aquarium. 
The  fishes  will  interest  him. 
The  street  musicians  are  his 
chief  delight  here,  and  he  fancies  that  he  would 
like  to  learn  to  play  the  mandolin  as  the  little 
street  gamins  do.  They  came  under  our  win- 
dows last  night,  and  he  went  to  sleep  and  into 
the  alluring  dreamland  to  the  air  of  u  Belle 
Napoli"  —  "Sweet  boy  of  Naples,  fare  thee 
well,"  —  and  so  must  we,  and  then  away  to 
some  of  your  charming  environs. 


&0  a  falling  &tat  51 

Jt  Amalfi. 
Here  we  are,  hundreds  of  feet  above  the 
Gulf  of  Salerno,  nicely  tucked  away  in  the 
Capuchin  Monastery.  John  enthuses  over  the 
place,  and  Signor  Vozzi,  who  is  a  delightful 
old  character,  and  the  proprietor  of  this  quaint 
place,  which  calls  itself  a  hotel,  has  taken  a 
fancy  to  the  boy.  Yesterday  morning  I  went 
out  on  the  terrace  in  search  of  John.  There 
sat  the  old  gentleman,  and  John  beside  him. 
The  entertaining  Italian  was  telling  John  of 
the  monastery  and  the  town  just  below  the 
hill.  Then  we  all  went  into  the  chapel,  and 
there  two  old  bagpipe  players  were  sending  up 
their  strains  to  the  blessed  Virgin.  The  air 
of  past  ages  one  breathes  here,  and  even  in 
the  refectory  an  ever-present  blessing  seems 
breathed  out  upon  us  all,  as  we  sit  at  meat 
and  break  bread.  Silence,  however,  is  rarely 
observed,  so  how  different  are  the  meals  of 
to-day  from  those  of  the  monks  in  years  past. 


52  &&  a  Jailing  &tat 

John,  Mary,  and  I  each  have  a  cell  in  which 
we  sleep  and  are  hushed  to  rest  by  the  splash- 
ing of  the  waves  on  the  shore  below.  Signor 
Vozzi  and  John  are  becoming  inseparable, 
and  I  fear  it  will  be  very  hard  to  persuade  the 
boy  that  it  is  best  to  go  on  soon,  and  leave 
this  rambling  old  monastery  by  the  Gulf  of 
Salerno.  Last  night  we  sat  together  and  read 
Longfellow's  u  Amalfi,"  which  begins  thus  : 

"  Sweet  the  memory  is  to  me 
Of  a  land  beyond  the  sea 
Where  the  waves  and  mountains  meet." 

John  loves  the  roses  that  grow  on  the  ter- 
race, and  he  is  permitted,  through  the  indul- 
gence of  Signor  Vozzi,  to  make  his  own 
selection.  The  cats  and  kittens,  particular 
pets  of  the  Italians,  are  his  as  well,  and  he 
goes  about  the  court-yard  and  around  the  ter- 
race with  his  eyes  full  of  joy,  the  cats  at  his 
heels,  the  roses  in  his  blouse,  and  the  words 
upon  his  lips  :    "  Eleanore,  let  us  stay  here 


&5  a  Jfallmg  &tat  53 

always. "  But  John's  cough  seems  to  trouble 
him  so  near  the  sea,  so  we  must  hurry  inland, 
though  it  pleases  him  to  stay. 

Our  first  mail  from  America  has  reached 
us.  Among  the  other  letters  is  one  from  Dr. 
Leech.      He  writes  : 

u  If  I  may  ever  be  of  service  to  you  or  the 
boy,  cable  *  Come/  Why  did  you  go  so  far 
away  ?  I  seem  to  be  groping  in  the  dark. 
You  forbid  my  hoping, — all  is  shadows.  But 
I  pray  that  the  most  glorious  sunlight  may 
ever  play  across  the  path  of  you  and  little 
John.  I  still  like  to  feel  that  between  you 
and  me  there  is  one  thing,  if  never  another,  in 
common  —  the  love  for  the  boy." 

Sorrento,  Italy, 
Sorrento,  with  your  dancers,  you  are  charm- 
ing.   The  peasants  in  their  gayly  colored  cos- 
tumes, in  the  "  Tarrantella,"  are  delightful. 
We  have  but  just  come  in  from  buying  a  cap 


54  &0  a  falling  &tat 

for  Alice  Wade  and  an  inlaid  table  for  the 
Doctor.  This  was  John's  thought  for  him, 
and  I  am  glad  to  have  him  think  of  the  kind 
friends  who  have  been  so  devoted  to  him  all 
these  years. 

We  had  a  delightful  letter  of  introduction 
to  F.  Marion  Crawford,  who  lives  not  far 
from  here,  on  the  road  leading  from  Amalfi  to 
Sorrento.  We  sent  the  letter  to  him  last 
evening,  and  he  sent  a  line  of  welcome  to  us 
an  hour  or  so  later.  So,  early  this  morning, 
after  the  shower  had  made  this  little  world 
fresh  and  beautiful,  we  made  our  way  to  the 
home  of  this  busy  author.  We  were  shown 
into  a  very  large  room  which  had  about  it  the 
atmosphere  of  the  man  of  letters,  and  was  as 
luxurious  as  it  was  different  from  the  living- 
room  in  the  average  house.  His  private  apart- 
ment where  his  books  are  "  manufactured," 
to  quote  his  own  words,  is  very  enticing,  and 


£0  a  falling  &tat  55 

the  entire  atmosphere  of  the  whole  place, 
both  inside  and  out,  is  so  restful,  beautiful, 
and  ideal,  in  every  respect,  that  we  could  see 
how  almost  anyone  could  be  inspired  with 
the  desire,  at  least,  to  write,  read,  and  live 
here. 

Mr.  Crawford  was  most  cordial,  and  showed 
true  American  hospitality,  though  other  coun- 
tries claim  him.  One  thing  he  said  in  re- 
sponse to  one  of  my  inquiries  as  to  the  real 
mental  condition  of  Paul  Patoff's  mother 
was  — 

"  I  Ve  almost  forgotten.  Have  n't  read 
that  book  in  some  time." 

Naturally  we  were  amused  to  find  that  the 
creator  of  this  strange  psychological  problem 
of  a  woman  hardly  remembered  what  her 
true  condition  had  been  according  to  his  own 
genius.  John  met  the  Crawford  children  and 
thought  them  very  amusing  little  folks. 


5°  &0  a  falling  &tat 

Rome,  Italy. 

Here  we  are,  in  Rome.  John  likes  the 
Piazza  at  the  foot  of  the  Spanish  stairs  best 
of  all  the  other  squares  in  this  ancient  city, 
so  he  tells  me,  for  here  the  models  in  their 
artistic  rags  flock  about  him  and  wish  to  have 
their  pictures  taken,  for  we  have  a  camera 
with  us.     Most  of  his  centimes  go  to  them. 

This  afternoon  we  wandered  into  the  little 
church  at  the  head  of  these  same  stairs,  and 
heard  the  nuns  sing  at  Benediction.  Their 
"  Ave  Maria "  suggested  to  John  that  they 
might  be  angels,  as  they  stood  so  high  above 
us  behind  the  iron  railing,  all  robed  in  white, 
and  sending  their  sweet  soulful  voices  into 
the  church  below. 

The  tremendous  ruins  John  does  n't  care 
for.  They  frighten  him,  he  says,  and  it 
wearies  him  sadly  getting  about  on  his 
crutches.     Tourists  seem  to  show  what  they 


&&  a  iFalUng  &tar  si 

feel,  when  he  comes  near,  and  their  pity 
seems  to  annoy  him.  He  likes  the  sculp- 
tures in  the  Vatican  museum,  but  he  says 
that  he  fears  to  be  near  the  chambers  of  His 
Holiness  the  Pope.  He  thinks  he  may  come 
out  some  day  and  reprove  him  for  not  being 
a  little  Catholic  boy.  Yesterday  he  bought 
a  very  pretty  rosary  to  take  the  village  priest 
on  the  island  where  we  have  spent  so  many 
of  our  summers.  We  had  it  sent  in  and 
blessed  by  His  Holiness.  It  will  add  value 
to  it  in  the  estimation  of  Father  O'Dean. 

Neither  John,  Mary,  nor  I  slept  well  last 
night.  In  the  afternoon  we  went  to  see  the 
Church  of  the  Capuchins,  where  the  skeletons 
of  long  since  departed  ecclesiastics  are  now 
come  to  be  mural  decorations.  The  sight  of 
them  left  such  a  ghastly  impression  on  our 
minds  that  we  agree  we  like  Guido  Reni's 
painting  of  u  Saint  Michael  and  the  Dragon," 


58  &*  a  falling  &tat 

which  adorns  the  side  wall  of  the  church, 
very  much  better  than  this  vandal-like  array 
of  bones. 

The  fountains  John  thinks  very  curious, 
and  the  beautiful  painting  of  the  "  Aurora  " 
which  adorns  the  ceiling  of  the  Respigliosi 
Palace  has  captivated  the  fanciful  mind  of  our 
little  lad.  "  It  is  all  like  a  cloud  picture, 
Eleanore,"  he  says. 

We  have  made  a  visit  to  the  Capitoline 
Hill,  and  the  statue  of  Marcus  Aurelius  I 
admire  very  much.  The  jewel-bedecked 
u  Bombino,"  in  the  chapel  near  by,  is  one  of 
the  shrines  about  which  all  devout  believing 
Catholics  pay  homage.  Its  healing  powers 
are  world-renowned,  and  the  journeys  it  has 
made  to  many  a  sick-bed  are  told  of  with 
pride  and  reverence  by  the  priest  who  takes 
you  about  the  church  which  harbors  this 
sacred  relic  of  the  holy  cross.  We  have  en- 
joyed our  visit  to  the  Museum  and  the  city 


.  SL0  a  falling  &tat  59 

courts,  the  statues  and  the  church,  but  I  fear  it 
has  been  too  fatigueing  for  John,  and  we 
must  not  come  again  soon.  He  cannot  be 
unnecessarily  wearied. 

The  Queen  drives  on  the  Pincion  Hill 
often.  To-day  we  saw  her  as  she  rolled  by 
in  state.  Her  graciousness  is  her  particular 
charm,  and  her  beauty  has  for  a  long  time 
been  the  pride  of  all  Italy.  John  enjoys 
watching  the  schoolboys  here  in  Rome.  He 
thinks  he  would  enjoy  being  a  student  here 
in  the  city  of  the  ancients.  How  limited  are 
his  pleasures  because  of  his  frail  health. 
Dear  little  fellow,  how  patient  always! 

Florence. 
Florence,  with  your  old  towers  and  bridges, 
your  river  and  your  streets,  your  forsaken  pal- 
aces and  your  museums  and  your  beautiful  sur- 
rounding country,  you  are  charming.  There 
is  a  fascination  about  you  that  is  irresistible. 


60  SL0  a  Jailing;  &tat 

Each  day  you  show  us  some  new  delight. 
Nurse  wheels  John  about  in  his  wheel  chair 
in  the  afternoons  on  the  Lunqarno.  He 
comes  home  telling  me  of  the  soldiers  and  the 
officers  he  sees  on  his  promenade. 

When  we  go  down  into  the  busier  quarters 
of  the  city  he  always  wishes  to  be  taken  to  the 
Strozzi  Palace  to  see  the  lanterns.  He  says 
he  had  rather  see  things  of  this  sort,  though 
he,  with  me,  admires  little  "  Saint  John  "  in 
the  Ritti  Palace,  and  he  smiled  wonderingly 
and  sweetly  when  I  told  him  that  he  resembled 
that  ideal  little  face. 

Nurse  and  I  hardly  see  how  Tito  could 
have  drowned  himself  in  the  Arno,  if  it  is 
always  as  low  as  it  is  at  present. 

To-day  we  were  at  San  Miniato.  It  is 
beyond  the  city  walls,  beautifully  located 
above  the  valley  of  the  Arno.  A  very  mag- 
nificent bronze  cast  of  Michael  Angelo's 
u  David  "   has   been   placed   on   the   highest 


&*  a  JFailinff  &tat  61 

point,  and  we  rested  on  the  marble  seats,  get- 
ting new  strength  and  courage  from  the  youth- 
ful slayer  of  the  Biblical  giant. 

To-morrow  we  are  going  to  drive  beyond 
the  walls  in  quite  another  direction.  The 
Monks  of  Chertosa  have  their  picturesque 
monastery  out  there,  and  we  are  going  to  pay 
our  adieus  to  these  white-robed  friars,  and 
bring  some  of  their  far-famed  Chatrieux  and 
perfumes  away  with  us.  John  wants  to  play 
once  more  in  the  court-yard  about  the  old 
carven-stone  well-curb  before  he  says  good- 
bye to  Firenze.  Good-bye,  dear  lily  city. 
Sweet  and  peaceful  has  been  our  sojourn  in 
Frau  Angelico's  sainted  city.  And  it  seems  it 
must  be  good-bye  to  Italy  as  well,  for  John  is 
failing  fast.  Must  I  believe  that  he  is  slipping 
away  from  me  ?  Is  the  precious  flame  of  life 
to  be  extinguished  ere  I  can  carry  the  dear 
child  back  to  our  native  shore  ?  Mary  admits 
to  me  that  she  is  much  alarmed  over  his  con- 


62  a*  a  falling;  &tar 

dition.  He  clings  to  me,  and  there  is  a  pathos 
that  I  dare  not  realize  means  we  are  soon  to 
part. 

He  hums  to  himself  one  of  my  old  harp 
tunes,  a  Scotch  air  Tom  loved  so  well  and 
that  the  little  child  has  heard  me  play  so  often 
at  home.  It  makes  me  faint  at  heart  to  hear 
him,  but  if  it  gives  him  pleasure  I  must,  and 
I  will,  allow  the  old  association  to  bind,  rather 
than  separate,  Tom  and  little  John. 

Glorious  Italy,  thy  blue  sky  has  brightened 
our  days  upon  your  historic  soil.  But  our 
ship  sails  from  Genoa  to-morrow,  and  soon 
this  fair  land  will  be  to  us  only  an  exquisite 
memory.     Addio !     Addio ! 


X. 


"  Why  should  we  faint  and  fear  to  live  alone, 
Since  all  alone.  Heaven  has  willed,  we  die  ? 
Nor  even  the  tenderest  heart  and  next  our  own 
Knows  half  the  reasons  why  we  smile  and  sigh." 

-KebU. 

E  are  on  the  sea.  John 
seems  very  feeble,  but  is 
patient,  and  Nurse  and  I 
never  leave  him.  How 
should  I  bear  this  —  surely 
my  last  sorrow,  since  I  have  no  more  to 
lose  —  if  it  were  not  for  the  moral  support 
of  faithful,  peaceful-faced  Nursy,  whom  John 
and  I  have  grown  to  love  dearly  since  our 
journey  began. 

We  are  almost  at  home,  though  John  is 
frail  indeed,  and  I  fear  there  will  be  little 
strength  remaining  when  the  time  to  land 
comes.    He  will  be  unable  to  use  his  crutches, 


64  &0  a  failing  &tar 

we    feel    sure,   by    the   time    the   ship  drops 
anchor  in  New  York  Harbor. 


Ah,  there  is  good  Dr.  Leech.  He  has 
come  to  greet  us  upon  our  return.  How 
good  it  seems  to  see  his  strong,  dignified  face 
when  we  all  need  comforting  so  much  just 
now.  And  how  glad  John  seems  to  see  his 
old  and  faithful  friend  once  more.  But  when 
I  look  at  Mary  I  can  but  assume  an  air  of 
joyfulness,  too,  for  her  face  is  covered  with 
blushes  and  pleasure,  and  I  now  guess  for  the 
first  time  her  secret,  which  she  has  guarded 
so  carefully  from  me  all  these  years  —  she 
loves  Dr.  Leech. 


XL 

•  The  past  is  over  and  fled ; 

Named  new,  we  name  it  old. 

Thereof  some  tale  has  been  told ; 
But  no  word  comes  from  the  dead, 

Whether  at  all  they  be, 

Or  whether  as  bond  or  free, 

Or  whether  they  too  were  we, 
Or  by  what  spell  they  have  sped. 

1  Still  we  say  as  we  go, 

Strange  to  think  by  the  way 
Whatever  there  is  to  know 

That  shall  we  know  one  day." 

—  Dante  Oabriel  Rossetti. 

OHN  went  to  his  heavenly 
home  in  the  spring.  He  lin- 
gered only  a  few  weeks  after 
we  reached  our  native  shore. 
Each  day  his  thoughtful 
brown  eyes  seemed  to  grow  the  deeper,  until 
they  resembled  the  heavenly  depths  them- 
selves. 

One  day,  late  in  the  afternoon,  just  as  the 
sun  was  setting,  he  called  me  to  him,  and  put- 


66  a*  a  jfalitniy  &tat 

ting  his  two  wasted  arms  about  my  neck, 
kissed  me  on  the  forehead,  and  said,  oh,  so 
gently  and  softly  : 

"  Eleanore,  will  you  tell  Captain  that  I  'm 
ready  now  to  sail  away  across  the  bay  ?  " 

And  then  pointing  to  the  two  little  crutches 
that  stood  in  the  corner,  his  breath  coming 
quickly  and  with  evident  difficulty, — 

"  I  think  I  hear  the  angels  playing  on  many 
harps,  Eleanore,  and  there  are,  oh,  so  many 
voices  seeming  to  say  s  You  will  not  need 
your  crutches  here '  —  so  they  are  yours, 
Eleanore.      Good-bye." 

And  before  I  could  believe  my  own  eyes 
he  had  relaxed  his  hold  about  my  neck  and 
had  fallen  back  upon  his  pillow, — and  now 
only  the  fragile  wasted  form  lay  before  me  to 
remind  me  of  the  lily-white  soul  that  had 
soared  above  my  grasp. 

We  have  laid  him  in  the  old-time  village 


2L0  a  JFallinff  fetat  67 

churchyard  here  on  the  island,  —  a  peaceful 
spot.  Here,  in  this  quaint  old  village,  he  spent 
his  last  beautiful  days  without  a  murmur,  ever 
patient  to  the  end.  The  villagers  asked  for 
the  privilege  of  keeping  the  small  lot  and  grave 
green,  and  have  planted  flowers  to  the  memory 
of  little  John,  for  he  is  at  rest. 

Twelve  years  of  beautiful  companionship, 
little  John,  —  now  you  are  with  the  others. 
Tom  knows  you  now,  and  so  do  the  parents. 
I  am  waiting,  waiting.  But  patient  I  must 
be,  for  the  angel-child  was  patient  always, 
though  he  suffered  much  and  constantly. 
John's  sweet,  beautiful  life  reminds  me  of  an 
impressive  sunset  I  once  saw  at  sea.  As  the 
great  body  seemed  to  sink,  the  gold  of  its  fire 
seemed  to  mellow  into  a  faint  wonderful 
shade  of  the  very  palest  yellow  I  have  ever 
seen,  and  the  whole  horizon  was  lit  up  by  the 
most  delicate  shades  of  blue,  rose,  and  violet. 


68  a*  a  jFalltng  &tat 

This  coloring  was  reflected  on  the  very  edges 
of  a  few  cumulus  clouds,  and  even  the 
deeper  depths  of  the  heavens  seemed  colored 
by  the  after-glow.  It  made  the  entire  sea 
world  resemble  an  exquisite  opal ;  and  such 
a  vivid  picture  remains  with  me  that  I  shall 
not  soon  forget  this  unusual  display  of  nature's 
jewels,  —  and  thus  the  little  life  of  my  John, 
my  little  dream-child,  seems  to  me  now. 
Twelve  years  !  and  yet  it  seems  only  a  day, 
and  sometimes  even  shorter.  But  so  full  of 
warmth  and  color,  so  full  of  gentleness  and 
forbearance,  so  aglow  with  a  heavenly  shad- 
ing, a  gem  of  an  existence  it  will  remain,  as 
that  sunset  is  a  veritable  gem-picture  on 
Memory's  wall. 

Dr.  Leech  and  Mary  are  married  now,  and 
in  a  few  days  I  am  going  to  visit  them.  The 
harp  has  been  taken  up  to  the  hospital,  and  I 


ft*  a  Jailing  &tat 


69 


have  been  persuaded  to  play  for  the  children 
every  week.  This  I  am  going  to  do,  for  He 
said  "  What  thou  doest  unto  the  least  of  these 
thou  doest  unto  me."  And  until  it  comes 
my  turn  to  "  sail  across  the  bay,"  and  I  hear 
Tom,  my  parents,  and  little  John  calling  over 
the  ferry,  "  Come,"  I  shall  play  on. 


OF  THE 

UNIVERSITY 

Of 


bOOU 


3  V4  r/6- 


